


Bare Bones

by IdleJane



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Erik and his feelings, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Translation Available, you know I had to do it to 'em, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 11:57:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13717203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleJane/pseuds/IdleJane
Summary: Erik wonders if he’ll ever stop staring at T’Challa like he’s a sunrise.





	Bare Bones

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Bare Bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13866414) by [kotokoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kotokoshka/pseuds/kotokoshka)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [坦白之心/Bare Bone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999698) by [LiKan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiKan/pseuds/LiKan)



> So I've been writing this story out for longer than I can say. Now that I've finally got some down time I decided to stop picking it apart and just post it. I hope that you all enjoy it! See you at the finish line!

They form a truce of sorts. Or well, T’Challa tries to. Even weeks into Erik’s recovery he doesn’t do more than sneer in T’Challa’s direction, stubbornly fighting the feeling of his heart squeezing in his chest whenever the King dares to enter his room. They don’t speak much during those times, which is good. Sharing space is bad enough and Erik can’t think of anything to say besides the venomous words that he doesn’t have the energy to utter aloud. 

He’s gotten soft since being here. 

Weak and weaker still. 

He’d rather T’Challa stuff him in a cell and forget about him altogether but the man is nothing if he isn’t infuriatingly persistent. He wants to _fix_ Erik. 

To right his father’s mistakes. 

It’s sad to watch really. 

He comes by every other day with a new excuse for being there, talking to the walls since Erik won’t look at him. 

He asks about Erik’s therapy, asks if he’s gone out to the grounds and tried his hand at actual combat (under the right kind of supervision of course), he asks if he’s well and if he’s sleeping alright. His questions are met with silence but he doesn’t let that deter him for long. Sometimes he’ll get frustrated and leave without another word, other times he just looks sad, defeated. Like showing his faith in Erik is a hardship. 

Those times hurt, just a little. 

They make Erik want to call after the King’s retreating back, to scramble up toward the doorway and pull him into Erik’s room and just hold him. He wants to apologize for the shit he’s been, for the problems that he’s caused. More than anything it makes him want to try. 

So he does, little by little. 

And he convinces himself that he’s only doing it to make himself feel better. 

He gets up early most mornings and works out. Does push ups by his bed until his arms are shaking and his muscles scream for relief. He’s not allowed to go very far but they allow him to make use of the path in the gardens that winds around the southern region of the palace. It’s quiet there, royal blooms carefully tended to and swelling beautifully in the glow of Wakandas sun. 

Guards surround the perimeter but he doesn’t pay them any mind. Jogging through the underbrush until he can’t go any further, his chest heaving and his lungs burning anew. It helps him think, let’s him work through all the memories without the aid of his shrink trying to dissect them. 

Sometimes when he returns from his morning run T’Challa will be waiting for him in his room, moving away from his things like he’s afraid of getting caught peeking at them. Erik didn’t bring anything to Wakanda but his father’s necklace and a dead man so there isn’t much to look at. 

What little possessions he owns are ones given to him by T’Challa or begrudgingly left in his rooms by a Dora sent as per the request of the Princess. 

The only thing he’s kept private is the journal his therapist had given him to write in. He rips out most of the pages whenever he’s done, his fingers uncertain as he scribbles across the paper. He doesn’t know what to write down, struggles to identify which memories and thoughts and ideas are most important. He’s gotten so accustomed to handling his emotions in the way he’s handled weapons. 

“Went out for a run today, I see.” T’Challa says and the smile on his face is less reserved than it normally is. Erik grunts at him, peeling his shirt over his head and chucking it into a corner. He doesn’t miss the look of unease that passes over T’Challa’s face at the action and he doesn’t miss the subtle shudder of breath either. 

“Yeah, so?” he cuts his eyes away, stalking off into the joined bathroom and starting up the shower. 

T’Challa follows him into the bathroom.

His face is unreadable where it stares at Erik through the mirror when he goes to the sink. He can feel his presence behind him when he splashes water onto his face to cool himself down. He tries to ignore the shiver that goes through him when he stands and finds the man studying him. The King’s eyes skating over his shoulders and getting stuck somewhere between his collarbones. 

Erik rocks back on his heels, arms coming to cross his chest, stance suddenly defensive. 

“Yo you gonna watch me shower or something? This isn’t a free show.”

The embarrassment is back and then it’s T’Challa’s turn to flee. He turns and walks to the door, an apology stuttering past his lips as he sees himself out.

Erik rubs thoughtlessly at the place where his father’s necklace scratches across his skin and watches him go.

:::

 

Some nights are harder than others. 

Most of the time Erik doesn’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time, waking in a cold sweat as the last tendrils of whatever nightmare he’s having leaves him to face the dark ceiling of his bedroom alone. His father is always there, in his dreams, smiling and filled with pride. His voice soft and reverent as he calls Erik _N'Jadaka_. 

Those dreams are nice, wrapped up in a nostalgia that aches whenever Erik opens his eyes. 

But the ones that are dark and bitter are the ones that seem to stick in his brain longer. The ones where his father’s body is cold in his arms, his sightless eyes staring off into the distance as he bleeds through his clothes. Erik can hear himself screaming long before he wakes up, can feel the muscles in his jaw constrict as he convulses on the bed, body shivering where he grips the sheets. 

The first time he’d woken up from his father’s death in the warm bed of an unfamiliar place he’d promptly turned off the side of the mattress and thrown up. His hands had gripped the sheets so hard that it felt like his knuckles were splitting open, the smell of vomit and the burn of it in his nose only making him gag harder. 

T’Challa had gotten there not long after he’d woken up, clambering into the bathroom for a garbage can and pressing a soothing hand to Erik’s back. 

Erik had been too weak to fight him off, the hot feeling of shame being outweighed by the soft caress of T’Challa’s voice in his ear telling him _‘It’s okay, you’re safe. It’s alright. It’s alright I’m here.’_

He’d let T’Challa help him get cleaned up, into new clothes and into clean sheets. 

Everytime after that had been much of the same thing and eventually they fell into something of a routine. That is until Erik started getting hold of his nightmares and refused T’Challa’s help. 

It’d been weeks since he’d allowed T’Challa to comfort him in that way. 

But something about tonight was different. His dreams were very much the same, the smell of death, his father’s gaunt dying eyes, the screaming and the cold sweat soaking him to the skin. He managed to get himself out of bed without feeling his stomach roll and he was thankful to whatever god that was above for keeping him from vomiting. 

He staggered out into the hall, ignoring the guard who came rushing to his side, torn between trying to push him back into his room and figure out what was wrong with him. 

“Get the fuck outta my way,” he hissed, shoving at them even as they kept pushing back. He gripped the doorway to his room, limbs shaking as the last of his nightmare started to leave him, the feeling of nausea settling low in his belly. 

“Move!” he hollered, and he was surprised when the guard did. Following him like a shadow down to the other end of the long marbled corridor and pausing in the doorway when Erik put his hand on the door. 

He bit the inside of his cheek, an ache burning in the corners of his eyes when his head found the cool vibranium metal of the King’s bedroom door. 

He had to see him. 

He doesn’t give himself a second more to think about it. 

He pushes in the door and lets himself slip into the dark. He can see T’Challa’s form on the bed, hidden under the sheets. The rise and fall of his chest is the only indication that he’s awake. He doesn’t speak when Erik walks across the floor to the side of his bed, holding out his sheets in silent offering.

Erik sinks to his knees like the praying man he never was, resting his head on the edge of the mattress instead. Feeling relief only when his knees finally hit the floor. 

Something wet forms in the corners of his eyes and he closes them, turning into the touch of the hand that settles on the crown of his head, the warmth of T’Challa’s palm enough to ground him. 

For now. 

“Come,” he says, holding out his blankets again, sitting up far enough to use his other hand for leverage in order to pull Erik into the bed with him. 

He’s not wearing a shirt. 

Which is something that should alarm Erik but doesn’t. 

He wastes no time climbing over the mountain of soft linen into the open arms waiting for him on the other side, turning his face into T’Challa’s skin and breathing him in. 

A hand comes down to his back, running along all the scars there as it runs its course from the base of his spine to his shoulder blades and back again. 

“Not a word,” he mutters, scrubbing a fist across his wet face and letting his body sink into the bones of the man underneath him. 

T’Challa _hmmms_ at that but doesn’t say anything, he just keeps rubbing Erik’s back, his hand coming up to cup his neck briefly on every pass.

Erik counts the amount of times he does this, turning his face into the crook of the King’s neck and feeling his lips settle on the warm skin there. He can’t help but notice that T’Challa smells like jasmine and honey.

He falls asleep when he counts to twelve.

:::

They never speak about that night. Mainly because Erik spends most of his time avoiding T’Challa by busying himself with other things. He’s still trying to win Shuri over, a task that isn’t easy considering the girl is dead set on hating him. Which he kind of gets especially considering the fact that he basically tried to kill her the first time around. 

He was still a traitor in the eyes of many and while he knew it would take more lives than he had to get anyone to look at him as something other than that that didn’t stop him.

He’s trying at least. 

His therapist said that that was a good start. 

He wasn’t going to rush head first into things, he could do slow and methodical even if it was a pain in the ass. 

He still runs in the mornings, still has nightmares at night. 

He hasn’t sought out T’Challa's bed for comfort after that one time and T’Challa hasn’t tried to comfort him either. He hoped that that would be the end of it really, but then again when has anything ever gone his way?

Eventually T’Challa does find him.

Out on his usual morning run. 

He doesn’t say anything as he falls into pace beside him, the sun doing unusually beautiful things to his skin. 

Erik wonders if he’ll ever stop staring at T’Challa like he’s a sunrise. 

His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as they cut a curve in the path and come up short after a two miles of running in silted silence. Given the short distance Erik thinks that he shouldn’t be breathing as heavily as he is but he is. He ignores the smile on T’Challa’s face as he bends over at the waist to try and catch his breath. 

“I haven’t seen you around a lot lately,” T’Challa says, his voice soft in the silence of the gardens. There’s something in his eyes that makes Erik have to look away, panicked and looking for an exit. 

But there’s nothing but winding ivy and rosebuds surrounding them for acres. 

He swallows past the dark lump in his throat and shrugs passively, “yeah well.”

He stops, unsure of what exactly to say. 

It frustrates him. 

This dude used to be his mortal enemy, he had wanted nothing more than to put him in the ground. So why was he getting so tongue tied whenever the man looked at him for a beat too long? What was it about him that had Erik fumbling like an idiot?

T’Challa frowns, “I apologize if I made you uncomfortable that night, that wasn’t what I intended.”

Erik sucks his teeth, grounding himself as he gives T’Challa a shove. The movement puts a bit of space between them which is good. It gives him room to think clearly. He can’t focus if he’s busy counting T’Challa’s eyelashes.

“Nah, it wasn’t anything you did,” he shrugs again, “I’m working through some things. But I’m sure you’d know all about that.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Anger flickers in Erik’s chest, “what, my therapist doesn’t tell you all the shit we talk about when I go and see him?”

“No,” T’Challa says, “whatever you discuss with him is confidential, no one -- not even I, can know that information.”

“You never been curious? ‘Bout all the twisted fucked up shit I’ve been saying? Not even a little bit?” Erik couldn’t believe that for one second. He was sure T’Challa knew something at least, why else would he be so dead set on fixing him if he didn’t know something? 

“I’m not trying to fix you,” T’Challa’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He shakes his head, “is that what you think I’ve been doing this whole time?”

“Well yeah, you’ve been coming around and acting all nice to me even though everyone else has gotten the memo and steered clear,” Erik says, crossing his arms to shield himself. He wanted to hit something, some part of him itched for a punching bag, a roll across the mat as one of the Dora flattened him, anything. He couldn’t take the tender look being leveled at him right now. He took a step back. T’Challa followed, slow and careful, hands raised like he was trying to show Erik he wasn’t a threat. 

“I act nice to you,” T’Challa starts, “because I want to. There is no further motive behind my actions.”

Erik snorted, ticking his head to the left. 

“Oh yeah? Would you act nice if you knew?” he asks.

_Knew all the things I wanted to do to you?_

_Knew of all the ways I want to pin you into place and ruin you?_

_Get you to sit still for just one fucking second so that I can my bury face in the side of your neck and get a restful sleep?_

_Knew how badly I want you to hold me again?_

“Knew what?” the King arched an eyebrow, stepping forward for every step Erik took back. And suddenly there isn’t a path anymore, dirt crunches underneath Erik’s sneakers and he feels the telltale prickle of a rose thorn poking him in the calf. 

He’s got nowhere else to run.

He turns his head, feeling trapped. He expects T’Challa to relent, like he always does, but he doesn’t this time. He’s not letting himself get run off again. He stays standing there, too close for comfort, the smell of jasmine thick and hard for Erik to breathe around. 

“If I knew what?” he persists, a hand coming up to touch the inside of Erik’s wrist. It’s enough to get him turning to look at T’Challa and he almost goes cross eyed from how close they’re standing. He feels his father’s ring hit T'Challa in the sternum.

The hand that had been on his wrist stays there, fingers tentatively wrapping around it and keeping Erik steady. He opens his mouth to say something but the words get lost on their way out. His tongue runs over his lower lip nervously and T’Challa’s eyes follow it, eyelids shrinking down to half slits. 

Blood pounds into his ears when T’Challa’s lips touch his. It’s a barely there brush of soft skin, tentative like he isn’t sure he’s supposed to be doing it. He starts to step back, a horrified look in his eyes, a wordless apology already forming on his lips. 

Erik doesn’t give him a chance to say anything, he leans in without hesitation, desperate for the contact. His fingers dig into T’Challa’s forearm as he pulls him close again, kissing back urgently as he clings and waits for the pain in his bones to ease. He tries to force his tongue past the soft press of T’Challa’s lips on his but the King is nothing if not agonizingly gentle with him, hands skating up and down his back in a way that reminds him of that night sharing warmth in his bed. 

He’s chaste, turning Erik’s head to the side and kissing a path down the heated skin of his neck. Erik gasps and tries to rock into him when he nips the spot where one of his first scars was created in the place where his jaw ends. He guides T’Challa’s mouth back to that spot, feeling a jolt of want curl his toes in his sneakers, tilting his head just so. He catches on to the hint and lets himself be led, closing his mouth over the scar and sucking, holding Erik’s weight as his knees start to give, a soft hurt moan falling past Erik’s lips when he feels a glance of teeth on his skin.

He pants into T'Challa’s neck, hips moving of their own accord but T’Challa shies away from the pressure even though everything in Erik is begging for release.

“You scared now?” he rasps, taunting. “You’ve been running after me this whole time and now you wanna be scared?”

The words leave his lips harshly and he has to reign himself back in when he finds himself on the receiving end of T’Challa’s stare. His lips are shiny with spit, pupils blown slightly wider than normal as he takes Erik in. Erik’s shoulders shrink a little under that stare but T’Challa doesn’t let him retreat out of his embrace.

“I don’t want to rush this,” he says. “I want you to realize that this is something that should be treated gently. That _you_ are something to be treated gently too.”

Erik shakes at words, his heart breaking into an unsteady rhythm when T’Challa settles a hand over it. 

“You deserve to be loved and adored, even if you don’t know it yet.”

And that’s too much for Erik to handle. He swallows but his throat is too dry for it to really matter. 

He feels the pin pricks begin to form in his eyes again but he doesn’t stop them this time. He buries his head against T’Challa’s neck again. Knowing that he can hide there for as long as he wants, soothing hands start to rub across his back. 

“Will you allow me to do that?” T’Challa asks and Erik already knows his answer is yes. He wants nothing more than this moment right here. The thud of T’Challa’s heartbeat slow and steady, the feeling of his arms around him, the smell of jasmine on his skin.

“Okay,” he says, and he means it, “okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
